The Last Abhorsen
by firstbookkeeper
Summary: When the Abhorsen is killed, her son is summoned from his life a diplomat to bind the Necromancers who killed his mother. As he comes to his destiny, he discovers fated love in his best friend slash sub-plot.
1. Prologue

AN: This is a slight edit of the original I posted before going ahead with several new chapters. I hope you enjoy this story!

Prologue The Penultimate

The Walker was little more than a skeleton that had risen from a local graveyard. Necromancers rarely bothered to raise the long dead as they were fragile, easily defeated by fire or water or a sword blow. The local peasants could have dealt with it without more than the shock of seeing the undead so near.  
What concerned the Abhorsen as she stalked the skeleton that it was more than likely that had responded to some errant Free Magic from a nearby, larger spell. She treaded carefully; afraid she might startle the Walker and loose her guide to the source of the magic.  
The Walker climbed a rocky hill, following a switchback cut across the exposed limestone. They rose above the tree tops. The Abhorsen could smell the tang of Free Magic as she climbed after; there was more Magic afoot than she had bargained for. Stepping still lighter, she drew her sword from and ran her hand over her bandolier of bells.  
The Walker jumped off the edge into the trees below. It disintegrated in a torrent of invisible Free Magic rising from the stand of trees. The Abhorsen didn t know what lay beneath her, but she was bound to oppose Necromancy at all costs. She sheathed her sword and drew the symbols for Water and Fire from the Charter. She hoped that whatever she met could be stunned by at least one of the symbols long enough to let her figure out what she should be doing.  
She jumped in much the same way the Walker had, but instead of disintegrating she merely choked on the acrid air before landing on one of the high branches. She began descending expertly; her blue cloak embroidered with silver keys made the only sound. When she climbed low enough she peered into the gloom.  
Ten Necromancers stood upon a Pentagram; five were at the points, five in the arms. In the central pentagon was an elaborate coffin with lifelike carvings of Undead. The Abhorsen was not easily startled by images of the raised passed, but they were still her worst memories carved into stone.  
She decided that she had no choice but to fight the Necromancers.  
She released the Fire and Water Charter Symbols together, and they merged to form a cloud of steam. The Necromancers all staggered backwards. The Abhorsen jumped down from the branches drew her sword. She sliced at the nearest Necromancer, felling him.  
She felt his soul slip into the River Death.  
She felled two more in the same way, even less afraid of the Necromancers than she had ever been.  
Then the Free Magic began. The seven surviving Necromancers began hissing the words to dangerous spells. The Abohorsen dodged the first few and struck down another Necromancer with her blade. Knowing that the odds were still against her she dodged behind a tree and felt it shudder as spells hit it. She was running out of options.  
She pulled out the last and biggest bell, Astareal and took a deep breath.  
The Abhorsen then came back around the tree and charged the nearest Necromancer. With a wide cut she slit his throat and he collapsed, slipping into death.  
That was when the first spell hit her. It penetrated her gut. She took a deep breath; fighting Astareal s urge to ring and cast her into death. She vowed to take one more before she passed into the river forever. She dropped her bandolier into the dirt and threw the sheath down; he was glad the heat of the spell had cauterized her wound. She threw her sword through the chest of the nearest necromancer.  
I bind you by the Charter, as Abhorsen, to deliver my sword and bandolier by whatever means to my son! she yelled.  
He fell to his knees, but his spirit would not enter Death until he achieved that goal.  
A second spell took the flesh off of her sword arm. She knew that she would never return The Abhorsen rung Astareal with one resounding clang and dropped the bell as the five remaining Necromancers and she slipped into Death

***

the Ninth Precinct was as cold and silent as ever. The stars winked at the Abhorsen as three of the Necromancers simply rose to meet them.  
It s not our time, a tall woman wearing a bandolier of her own said. Her silver hair looked regal under the stars.  
Indeed, the other said, his voice echoing like in the gloom. Goodbye Abhorsen, you were always a worthy advisory. The Abhorson found it strange to be in death with no bells and no sword. She knew she had no body to which to return. Her son would become the Abhorsen. She had no reason to fight the strange sensation that she was rising towards the great ceiling of stars 


	2. Chapter I: The Storm

Chapter I The Storm

Luthlien awoke from his nightmare. The dream of his mother descending into Death and then rising through the final gate still danced across his brain. The vivid dream unnerved him his family s magic and the danger of his mother s job made the threat of her death real to Luthlien.  
He rose from bed and went into the living room in the state issued apartment. He opened the blinds to reveal a magnificent view of Ancelstierre s capital. In the distance he could see the government district, a beautiful contradiction of period buildings from across the nation s history, framed against the modern green skyscrapers reaching to the sky. Though far from his home in the Old Kingdom capital or his mother s house in the highlands, he loved the cosmopolitan city that was so foreign to everything he d grown up with.  
He walked over and turned on the telecinema. The box immediately showed the news. A strange storm is tracking south out of the Old Kingdom, a calm female voice reported. To accompany the proclamation was a satellite image of Ancelstierre. The northern border was typically obscured by static, as was the entire Old Kingdom.  
The strange part was that so were parts of the storm.  
Luthlien s mind raced; it was evident that this was some sort of magical storm. He had never heard of this happening before, but there were so many mysteries of his homeland yet unplumbed. Moreover he was the diplomat to Ancelstierre; it was his duty to alert the Prime Minister if this was indeed a magical phenomenon.  
There are widespread unconfirmed reports of the dead rising in the midst of this storm. These are, of course, probably derived from the border superstitions Those are not superstitions! Lutlien yelled in spite of the fact the women on the telecinema could not hear him.  
The government has asked the public is asked to remain calm. Luthlien decided that he was not part of the public but the son of the Abhorsen, and he had no right to remain calm as the dead rose across a land unaccustomed to dealing with the not-enough-departed.

***

Luthlien and his best friend, Morlint, walked down the corridors of the Ministerial Building. Luthlien was surprised that the Prime Minister had agreed to speak with him as the skies over the capital had begun to gray. It was fortunate, because Luthlien would speak directly of the approaching storm.  
Morlint was not so optimistic. You know they don t believe in us this far south, he complained.  
The Prime Minister has been sent every Army report of the dead rising along the border going back many years, Luthlien said.  
How d you swing that? Morlint asked, cocking his head and cocking his head and tossing his rich brown curls.  
Luthlien ran his hand through his hair black as grave dirt. One of the clerks at the Army HQ used to be posted at the Wall. He owes me about six favors. Owed, you mean? Morlint asked.  
Fine, he owed me six favors. Still, what do you think that will do? Hopefully we ll be able to convince them to take precautions. Morlint snorted.  
They stopped outside the Prime Minister s meeting room. You re expected, Ambassadors. They were ushered inside where the entire upper level Ministry was crammed.  
Is it true this storm is raising the dead? General McLett asked, face pale.  
That s nonsense, the Prime Minister huffed.  
Luthlien knew an ally when he saw one. McLett had, almost four decades before, been in charge of the entire Border Command. He knew full well what was coming.  
I can t know what this storm is doing any more than you can, but it looks that way, yes. Luthlien said expecting his frank statement to cause division.  
This is borderland nonsense, the only woman in the room said. We need to ensure that everything south of this storm is secure. She was raised south of the capital and had only rarely ventured north. Still, her job as Minister of the Interior made her a needed ally.  
Indeed, the Prime Minister said.  
Did you read those reports I had sent to you? Luthlien asked him.  
Do you think your Army unbalanced? Liars? Morlint asked.  
Well, of course not, he said. Not on whole. But they are people and susceptible to the same kind of myth the rest of the border is. Do you think me a liar? McLett asked.  
You didn t have anything to do with this nonsense. I wrote some of the ones we have archived, he said coldly.  
And we grew up north of the Wall, Luthlien said very quietly. My mother s job is to lay the dead to rest. As it was her father s, McLett said. We owe his family much peace at the Crossing.  
My advice, as a representative of the Crown of the Old Kingdom, is that we prepare for massive failure of technology and that the dead rising all across Ancelstierre, Luthlien said.  
This is ludicrous, the Minister of the Interior said.  
And if I don t? the Prime Minister challenged.  
Then I offer general McLett safety in my apartment, as he is the only with sense enough to take precautions against the dead. The effect was marked. The Prime Minister s face turned blood red. How am I to instate this policy without loosing face? That hardly seems hotheaded Morlint began.  
McLett cut him off. The Army could quietly do most of it. We ve operated at the Border that way for many years. The Prime Minister looked at him in disbelief.  
It s a very different world that far from Parliament, sir. Then you collaborate! he snapped. And I hope that we re not wasting time here, because I will fire you if I find out we are. McLett s face flushed. I hope that the Army will be enough.

***

Luthlien never expected to find the Ministry Plaza in the government district a battlefield where he would be the most qualified general. He would one day be the Abhorsen, he knew.  
He wore the sword and bandolier of a Necromancer; beside him Morlint was dressed much the same. He knew less about putting the dead to rest, but his father had been a Necromancer before he was killed.  
Will the Charter be flowing? Morlint asked.  
Luthlien gripped the hilt of his sword as the engine of nearby tank died. This has never happened before. I hope McLett got everyone to make weapons the way you taught him I trust him. And sealed the Graveyards He takes this seriously. But what if Please stop chattering. Lutlien said, gripping his sword hilt tighter.  
A cold rain began. It seemed another hour passed by before McLett returned.  
This is a disaster. He said. This should never happen this far south. I know, Luthlien replied.  
They waited as the storm gathered in strength. After night had completely fallen a soldier ran into the square holding a torch. It was signal that he was not dead, as the dead did not carry fire. They re headed this way! Are you certain this is not an attack on the Ministry, McLett asked.  
Not by the Crown, Luthlien said. And no one gains much by attacking this far south, especially not with undead. They could hear the screams of the dead and the living as the battle raged just one street over. Luthlien feared that many of the soldiers were relying on guns despite the warnings. The soldiers around him, by contrast, either had border experience or were part of the elite guard assigned to the Minister some were even both. They would listen to the order not to bother with guns and use the swords that had been brought up from an antiquated armory.  
The lines that held each of the wide avenues into the plaza broke nearly simultaneously. Morlint, McLett, and the soldiers all drew their swords. Luthlien wasn t ready to use his sword so early; he could feel the charter flowing through the city. He had a special knack for charter magic and he began pulling symbols out of the stream fire with sleep, sunlight with rain. He threw the combinations at the minor undead that were streaming into the plaza.  
He was wary of using the bells; the Charter and Free Magics were not as strong as up north and it was evident that they might act even more unpredictable than at home. He did not need casualties from an errant or perverted ring.  
The soldiers were getting pushed closer and closer to the open doors of the Ministry. They were simply unprepared to wield the heavy weapons and many were falling to the recently dead.  
Luthlien waved Morlint over and yelled in his ear, Take them up to the Ministers office. Hold them off for as long as you can! And you? He yelled back.  
Luthlien was irritated that he didn t just do it, but he said, I m going into death as soon as you re all clear. He signaled to the General, who immediately ordered an organized retreat. Luthlien covered it best he could, but the Charter had decided to run shallow. He wasn t used to reaching to find that there was no fire or no sleep to pull from the stream.  
The soldiers retreated back into the Ministry as Luthlien fired more charter marks into the horde of corpses. They were coming far to close for his comfort.  
Morlint was one of the last still outside.  
Go! Luthlien shouted.  
I m going in with you! He yelled. I ve walked Death before. The general wants me there. Luthlien had never been responsible for another person in Death. He didn t very much like the idea of taking his best friend, no matter how dire the situation in Life got.  
Nonetheless, they slipped through as the last few soldiers entered the Ministry and shut the door

***

The ambient light of Death was raining. Luthlien had grown accustomed to the strange fog that consumed Death, but the strange effect created by entering so far from a consistent source of Free Magic unnerved him. The white mist seemed to be falling through itself, making the water shimmer in the distance.  
Luthlien grabbed Morlint s arm, just to be sure he was there.  
This is unnatural, Morlint breathed.  
You ve not been out of the Old Kingdom long enough; this place is always unnatural, The souls of departed soldiers floated in the shallow river, borne towards the First Gate by the seemingly gentle current. The dead moaned to the strange mist. Those raised near the Wall accepted what was happening silently; the myth of the River was known all to all who lived where the border was thin.  
He relaxed as Morlint put his hand on his shoulder before he heard a feminine voice whisper in his ear, Your mother protected you. Luthlien whirled around and drew his sword. Who are you? She smiled, though it did not reach her cold eyes, and said, I was there when the Abhorsen passed into death without her sword, bandolier, or even a single bell. She took seven of my best men with her, I might add. Liar Luthlien choked. You d have killed me already. I can t kill you; you can t kill me, she said. She pushed her silver hair out of her face. At least, not until you re Abhorsen. But I don t intend to be in Death when that happens. Then why are you here? Morlint asked, never the diplomat.  
To strike a deal, she said. I never fight if it can be avoided. You want me to never return to the Old Kingdom. I want you to surrender your bells and sword upon entering the Old Kingdom, she said. I ll even spare your life. Send them by courier if you don t believe me. Just surrender them. Never, he said.  
I ll be waiting for you, she said.  
Then she walked away.  
A figure approached down the narrow path of mostly submerged rocks that lead to the First Gate. He had a sword lodged in his chest and he wore the bells of a Necromancer. Take them he cried, he said as he offered the bandolier. Release me As he approached out of the falling gloom Luthlien recognized the bells.  
They were his mother s.

***

The bullet train headed north, the wreckage across the Ancelstierre evident through the windows even at the breakneck paced of the train. It was like seeing the wreckage and carnage of the city he considered most beautiful all over again. Luthlien held on his lap the carefully made bundle containing his mother s his bandolier and sword. From the Necromancer who could not pass until he gave Luthlien his mother s last gift.  
This isn t your fault, Morlint said firmly, looking Luthlien in his dark, haunted eyes.  
Then it s my mother s, Luthlien said distantly. My mother killed 207 citizens of Ancelstierre and cost that government millions of pounds in damage. You know that s not what I meant, Morlint said.  
I can t be the Abhorsen, Luthlien said, tears brimming in his eyes.  
You walked into death in the capital of Ancelstierre; you are either a very good Necromancer, or the next Abhorsen. You don t understand, Luthlien despaired. He then said, I m not made for the Old Kingdom; I can t do what they want me to do. Right now, we just have to cross the Wall, Morlint said, staring out the window.  
Luthlien laid his head on Morlint s shoulder and found he didn t even have the strength to cry. 


	3. Chapter II: The Dreamer

Chapter II

The Dreamer

_Caradelle ran through the river of Death chased by two winged creatures from the bowls of the 7__th__ level. She tripped and fell, and was tipped into their jaws._

_Darkness consumed her._

***

The border crossing had gone smoothly. Their diplomatic passports always eased the process. Ancellestierre had a duty to protect it's own citizens but they would gladly allow Old Kingdom diplomats to enter the perilous land without hesitation.

Luthlien and Morlint travelled north along the familiar path to Luthlien's ancestral home.

His home.

He was shaken from those musings when they came up on a bluff. A woman in an icy blue dress laid on the ground, thrashing in nightmares. She was flecked with frost—as sign she was enchanted to be on the edge of death. Duty tugged at Luthlien and he ran to help her.

***

_Drip, drip, drip…_

_The pipes above Caradelle were maddening. They echoed around her. She was sure that she should be dead, but somehow the darkness had revealed itself not as the bowels of the two monsters, but as a prison. In the walls all around her she heard water sloshing. _

_A woman with long red hair walked in. She wore the Bandolier of a Necromancer and carried herself as those who walk death often do: with careful self-assuredness. "I can stop the poison," the women said._

_Caradelle struggled against the ropes that bound her to her chair. _

"_All you have to do is tell me where you are so I can come and get that pendant from you."_

_Caradelle smiled. "You will have to find my corpse."_

"_I have days to break you. And I will."_

_The woman walked out. There was a terrible gurgling noise, and then water began seeping through the cracks under the door. That was followed by the door bursting open—a terrible deluge drowning her. Her wrists bled against the bindings; she choked against the dark water._

_***_

Luthlien reached into death, but not far. He felt her and brought her back to the realm of the living. Or rather, something unnatural happened. Water from the legendary River came with her, forming ice that locked her in place. Morlint dispatched it quickly with a gentle fire Charter. The girl breathed slowly and she responded neither to Charter nor bells.

"Perhaps she is a fairy princess," Morlint suggested. "A kiss?" He asked wryly.

That drew a small smile from Luthlien. But they had a serious problem: the sun was still high, but soon they'd need to fortify themselves for the night and they'd have to decide how to deal with the strange girl. Luthlien closed his eyes and pictured the graphic pages of the book of the dead. There was nothing in it that described this hex, but there was so much in the Old Kingdom not in the Book.

"Poison." Morlint said.

"What kind?"

"Venom of a Mordicant fermented with wolf's bane," Morlint said. "My father liked this one. It lets who ever uncaps the bottle influence the drinker as he or she sinks into madness. They flit on the edge of Death until finally the River takes hold. Until then, the drinker has terrible visions."

"How do you cure it?" Luthlien asked.

Morlint grimaced. "As far as I could tell, you didn't."

Luthlien wasn't going to give up once he knew what was in her veins.

***

_Caradelle was no longer trapped in the water. She was now trapped in a silent, undefined gray. She felt no ground below, nothing above. _

_And no air._

_She was suffocating._

_***_

It was a guess. Maybe not a bad one, but a guess. Mordicant venom was cured by ashes of a fire that been fed blood. Neither Luthlien nor Morlint knew even the basics of alchemy—let alone the chemistry—to really be sure.

"How much blood?" Morlint asked.

"A goblet," Luthlien said as he pictured the Book of the Dead.

"Wanna go halvsies?"

Luthlien looked at him. "I'm going to pretend you asked a slightly different question and say yes."

"What was wrong with that?"

Luthlien grimaced as he pulled two symbols for fire from the stream and lit the small pile of brush they'd collected from the sparse landscape. It burned hot, quickly consuming the branches. He cut his own forearm and let the hot liquid flow sparatically into the fire. He imagined it falling into a goblet as a crude form of measurement. When Luthlien's imagination was "half-full" he quickly bound up the cut and passed the knife to Morlint.

Their eyes locked.

Morlint looked scared, and Luthlien tried very hard to comfort him with just a look.

When they were done they waited for the fire to burn down.

"Magic and fire mean we will see the Undead tonight," Morlint said, knowing he probably wasn't imparting new information.

Luthlien unsheathed his sword and regarded it. "I guess I'm Abhorsen."

***

_The gray was dissolving. Caradelle prepared for another horrific scene of torture. The pendant weighed heavy around her neck, the stone it was made from calling out to the tombstone it had been taken from._

_Suddenly she was on fire. The Free Magic of the Mordicant poison flared off her skin. She tasted ash and iron. Strange visions were forming, dancing, chasing themselves around in her eyesight._

_And then—_

***

The woman awoke and immediately grabbed the garish piece of limestone hanging from her neck by a thin chain and a held in place by a real eagle claw. Luthlien regarded her, his sword at his side, but nonetheless ready.

"Who are you?" he demanded. Victim does not mean innocent.

"You can't have found me!" she screamed shrilly. "I escaped!"

"But not from us," Morlint said kindly. "Nor anyone we work for."

Her eyes darted back and forth, then around. "Whom do you work for?"

"The Crown," Luthlien said, "for I'm Abhorsen." The phrase was easier each time.

"I'm no fool," she said, "and you are far too young and far too male."

"Whom did you escape from, if not the Authorities?" Morlint asked in hopes of putting the discussion back on their terms.

"I'm not telling you anything," she said. "This is just another one of her tricks!!!"

Morlint rolled his eyes. "Don't you dare go hysterical."

"Morlint…" Luthlien warned.

"No." He said bluntly. "She is going to take a few deep breaths and listen very carefully. The old Abhorsen is dead. Luthlien there is her son, the diplomat to Ancelestierre. I was his attendant and adviser mostly to make sure he wasn't the only person from the Old Kingdom in case something happened or he got homesick. We're trying to find the necromancers who killed his mother. You keeping up? Cause we're not here to murder you, though if you go all hysterical and paranoid and refuse to tell us your name, I might."

"Thank you, Morlint," Luthlien said. He would have rubbed his temples had he not been holding a sword.

"Caradelle," she said quietly.

"And why are you here?" Luthlien demanded.

Caradelle looked into his eyes. They were deep and dark like those of the Claire. He had the same pale skin and dark hair. Handsome, in a distant sort of way. His bells were very old and very fine for a Necromancer. If she would not acknowledge where she was, but if the Necromancer she feared was behind this, she knew Caradelle's history anyway.

"I was taken by a Necromancer, Nordhexa. She came to the Claire seeking refuge, or so she claimed. The Claire had seen nothing of her coming and were naturally suspicious."

"Are you a Claire?" Morlint interrupted.

"My mother was one their servants. I am the product of tryst she had," Was the terse response. "I have not been trained and I can only rarely see anything of the future." She eyed them both. "Now, Nordhexa stayed six nights, and on the seventh her two henchmen broke into my room, ransacked it, and took me to their hideout deep in the mountains. I escaped before they could use me for whatever they intended me for."

Morlint and Luthlien looked at eachother. She wasn't telling them why she had been picked—perhaps she didn't know.

And the sun was getting low.

***

Fire is the enemy of the raised dead; fire draws the raised dead. Around the capital the soldiers burn enormous fires to draw in the undead so that they can lay them to rest. But in places where living—and therefore the raised dead—are fewer, it does not serve well to try to find the few, but rather to hide.

After the day's fire, it did not surprise Luthlien, Morlint, or Caradelle that a couple of Hands found them.

Morlint had nodded off on his watch and didn't hear them approaching until they were close.

Thud.

One of them clumsily tripped over the rough terrain and shook him out of his stupor. A hiss followed the heavy sound; it was a sound of no Hand. Morlint quietly shook his fellow travelers awake. "Hands and something else," He breathed into Luthlien's ear.

Despite the crisis, Luthlien felt an odd tug in his the pit of his stomach when he heard Luthlien's voice.

Caradelle reacted quickly, drawing light symbols from the stream. She held them expertly and said, "Shield your eyes, boys." She threw them into the air as confetti. A thousand suns exploded above them.

Luthlien opened his eyes as the Charter faded; there was a Werecat behind the seven stunned hands. Luthlien had not carried Wolf's bane on a diplomatic mission; he did not have it now that he'd returned. It was not difficult to kill a Were-animal, but without wolf's bane they'd likely all be infected in the struggle.

"Kill the hands," he told the other two. "The cat won't attack if it doesn't have to."

"And do we have a plan for the Werecat?" Morlint asked.

"Not yet," Luthlien said. He missed being in control of the simple, terse diplomacy between two countries not really at peace.

Caradelle placed her hands together and smiled. A sword of light appeared in her hands, a bright beacon in the night, the night suddenly not so dark. The Hands cowered from it, and she charged forward. It wasn't even a fight. The bright blade quickly dispatched the 7 stunned undead.

So the Werecat struck.

Luthlien charged forward before the cat howled in pain. It withered as though it had been doused by wolf's bane.

"We only got rid of the Mordicant poison!" Morlint exclaimed.

Caradelle stared at the cat as it died.


End file.
